


The Man With No Name

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abduction, Gen, Murder, forgeries, museum heists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Renaissance masters are Neal’s bailiwick. Ultimately, in a twist of Fate, they also prove to be his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Case

     The nightmare was unfolding on the quiet tarmac of a private airstrip in nearby New Jersey. A Sikorsky S-92 luxury helicopter, with its rotors turning, awaited the boarding of three passengers. Peter, with his gun drawn and a sea of armed FBI agents at his back, felt both fear and frustration as he surveyed the scene. He watched impotently as one of three men hurriedly scrambled into the copter taking a bulky painting with him. The remaining two figures in front of him were locked in a deadly embrace. A tall, swarthy man had Neal pressed against his chest in a chokehold with a lethal-looking gun jammed into the conman’s temple. He was backing steadily towards the aircraft’s door, dragging along his captive whose eyes had locked onto Peter’s. What Peter saw in those blue eyes was unspoken pleading— _Do something, Peter. Don’t let him take me because then I’m a dead man!_

But Peter couldn’t risk a shot. He might hit Neal, or, even if his aim was true, the gunman might instinctively pull the trigger when he felt the bullet enter his own body. Thus, what Peter was forced to do was allow the thug and his human shield to fall through the open door. He then watched helplessly as the big engine took the aircraft up vertically and then rocketed off towards the Atlantic Ocean.

**********

Two Days Earlier

       The New York White Collar office kept abreast of art crimes anywhere in the world. Their intel was always current because Interpol forwarded routine updates on heists, thefts, and robberies involving anything to do with the world of art. There had been several very high profile cases over the last eighteen months in which a brazen and methodical crew stormed distinguished museums and galleries throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. They were coordinated and lethal, using stun grenades and tear gas to breach venerable institutions in the middle of the day. Uzis took out any responding security, guards, local police, or patrons who got in their way as they snatched specific oil masterpieces before making a clean getaway amid the chaos that they left in their wake.

     The National Galley in London had lost three priceless paintings by Raphael, Veronese, and Peter Paul Rubens. Rome was now minus a Titian from the obscure Doria Pamphily Gallery, and the world-renowned Uffizi Gallery in Florence was missing a Botticelli. Greece was not spared when a Tintoretto masterpiece was stolen from the Gallerie dell’ Academia in Athens.

     Neal was sitting in Peter’s office reading the report from Interpol. Cocking an eyebrow, he flippantly remarked to his handler, “It would seem that someone is amassing a very exclusive 16th century Renaissance collection to fill in those pesky bare spots on their living room wall.”

     “Maybe,” Peter responded, “but more than likely the paintings are being sold to the highest bidder on the underground black market. Lots of wealthy art enthusiasts with big bucks would shell out millions to possess something so rare. These people, who have more money than God, have dedicated individuals on their payroll who keep an ear to the ground for upcoming availability of a masterpiece. Art aficionados want the unattainable for their private collections and they do not care where it comes from as long as it is the real deal. There have been innuendos from time to time on the European front that the transaction of such goods have occurred, but the authorities were always two steps behind and could never nab anyone in the act. They still don’t have a clue.”

     “You’re not telling me everything,” Neal looked suspiciously at Peter. “Did something pop up on _your_ radar?”

     “Indeed it did,” crowed Peter, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Knowledgeable sources in the arena of art theft have whispered that Titian’s masterpiece entitled ‘ _Salome_ ’ may be available to the highest bidder. That is the painting that was stolen in Rome. Maybe the heat was too intense in Europe, so the thief is now actually in the United States hawking his purloined wares.”

     With a self-satisfied little smile the agent continued. “We have been investigating a Wall Street mogul for some time regarding his assets both here and abroad. Actually, the IRS is taking the guy’s life apart as we speak. In return for some leniency, the billionaire has agreed to be involved in our little sting operation. He has put out feelers to the right ears indicating that he is interested in purchasing the painting. The asking price is $60 million.”

     Neal whistled appreciatively, “That’s an impressive figure.”

     “But it’s in the ballpark for a Titian,” Peter replied. “There are only approximately 300 pieces of his artwork still in existence in the world. In 2009, the London National Gallery purchased his ‘ _Diana and Actaeon_ ’ for 71 million.

     ‘Mr. Wall Street’ has made contact with the seller, and a meet has been set up for the day after tomorrow. I will be representing the buyer in this transaction. Mr. Peter Reynard—that’s me—has power of attorney from the purchaser to finalize the transaction with the push of a button on my smart phone after my authenticator—that’s you—gives me a thumbs up.”

     Neal chuckled, “ _Reynard -_ the fox. I like it. And just who am I going to be in this little drama?”

     Peter’s forehead crinkled in thought, “I hadn’t considered that it would be necessary to introduce you. I suppose you’ll just have to be the man with no name.”

     Neal grimaced. “So now I’m relegated to a role just like Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns—‘ _the man with no name_.’”

   Peter huffed out a laugh and slapped Neal playfully on the shoulder. It felt good to be going out in the field again as a team. For so long, their relationship had been strained after the debacle surrounding Neal’s father. The schism had widened after Peter had discovered Neal’s machinations to free him from prison. There followed a new anklet, a new handler, the tragic death of that handler, and Neal’s ill-fated attraction to a psychotic killer. It had been months of roller coaster ride emotions on both their parts. Now it seemed as if they were back to baseline on an even keel, and Peter was eternally grateful. Neal had just a year left on his probation, and Peter would really relish an incident-free twelve months.

     For the rest of that day and the next, Neal studiously poured over everything available on the Renaissance artist, Titian, and his style and mastery. He felt reasonably confident that he could spot a fake, if that’s what was being pawned off as the original. It would be a big coup for the Bureau if this operation actually took down the person responsible for the worldwide art thefts. However, if the painting turned out to be bogus, there would still be an arrest made for an attempt to sell forged goods. So, a win/win situation for the good guys.

     Everything was progressing according to the script on the day of the meet. Peter and Neal had driven up to the airstrip in a limo, but FBI agents had been embedded in the hanger over an hour before their arrival. At precisely the designated meeting time, a privately owned helicopter swept in from the south and landed as elegantly as a butterfly onto a flower. The door swung open allowing two men to alight—one was carrying a parcel, and the other, a more substantial bodybuilder type, was most likely the muscle backing up the bearer of gifts.

   The contingent of buyer and seller, accompanied by their seconds, met halfway. The smaller of the two visitors extracted the painting from a canvas bag and held it up for perusal in the harsh outdoor light.

       Peter nodded in Neal’s direction as he explained, “My expert would like to take a look before I part ways with my money. I just want to make sure that we’re on the same page when we conduct our business so that there are no misunderstandings.”

     Neal then chimed in. “Perhaps we can take the painting inside the hangar. There’s a table in there with a high intensity lamp where I can examine the piece more easily.”

     The man holding the painting shook his head adamantly as he ignored Neal and stared at Peter. “We do this here, now, or not at all. If your ‘expert’ is worth his salt, he can see what he needs to see while I’m holding it right in front of his face.”

     Peter looked at Neal with a wry expression. “Well, ‘Mr. Authenticator’—authenticate away!”

     Neal took out something from his pocket akin to a jeweler’s loop and began going over the work from top to bottom and side-to-side. Finally, after several tense minutes, he concluded his thorough examination and made his pronouncement.

     “The brushwork is good with the effortless flowing and subtlety of line and tone. However, Titian was known for his vibrant use of red, and this particular red depicted in Salome’s gown lacks the translucent luminosity that was the hallmark of Titian’s style. This is not an original masterpiece, although it does have its merits as a fairly decent copy.”

     “Are you absolutely certain that it is a forgery?” Peter asked his partner.

     “I’m sure,” Neal gave the phrase that had been pre-determined for the takedown.

     Suddenly, agents began pouring out of the hangar with guns drawn shouting “FBI” at the top of their lungs. The tall bodyguard, who until now had simply been hovering alertly, reacted by pulling a gun and simultaneously grabbing hold of Neal. The panicked man with the painting fled, quickly climbing aboard the aircraft with the evidence.

     The standoff continued as FBI agents reiterated their demand that the bodyguard lay down his weapon while they kept their own at the ready. The menacing captor wasn’t buying that routine, and step by step, he and Neal were moving closer to a means of escape. Within seconds, Neal was clumsily dragged into the darkness of the aircraft’s body while Peter stood helplessly on the ground enduring the gale from the revving rotors. He watched in dismay as the copter rose vertically and moved off with amazing speed. He could hear Jones and Diana at his back barking orders into their handheld devices to local as well as state police. They were requesting assistance with aviation capabilities that could intercept the aircraft and force it to turn back. The getaway vehicle, with its powerful Mercedes engines, was now just a small dot on the horizon.

     “Make sure to tell them that there is an innocent on board—one of us—so no shooting or forcing it into the ocean,” Peter hoarsely demanded.

     On the tension-filled ride back to the FBI building, Peter realized what he had said in the heat of the moment. Desperate times have a way of exposing what we keep tucked away in our soul. Peter now realized a truth that he had never voiced to the one person who should have heard it. Neal was indeed “one of them!”

**********

     That terrible afternoon saw an FBI office resembling a hyperactive beehive, with agents scurrying from phones to computer monitors and back again mimicking some sort of perverted breakdance routine. Peter was apprised that the response time by local NYPD choppers was not quick enough to reach the fleeing suspects. However, they were being tracked on radar as they made their way north. Eventually, they crossed into Canadian airspace and officials there were made aware of the pursuit and promised to respond. The chopper had finally landed at Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport in Montreal. When the local police surrounded the aircraft and ultimately breached it, they found that all the previous occupants had vanished.

     Efforts to trace the ownership of the impressive Sikorsky S-92 were a challenge. Jones valiantly sifted through registrations that were mired down in offshore shell corporations that bounced around the globe. He came up empty, but he was determined to keep at it for the duration. Anything to keep his mind and his fingers busy so that he would not have to think about the ramifications for Neal.

     Peter sat tensely at his desk, not daring to think about his CI’s fate. Much later in the day, Diana came hesitantly into his office requesting that he come into the conference room. With a look of anguish, she inserted a flash drive into a laptop computer that immediately projected a silent black and white image onto the large screen on the wall.

     “This is footage that was sent to us from one of the state police helicopters that kept the fleeing aircraft on its recording monitors,” she said quietly.

     Peter’s gut tensed as he watched the dark-colored aircraft move relentlessly across the sky. Suddenly, an object the size and shape of a human being was thrown from an open door. It plummeted rapidly downward, barely making a splash as contact was made with the vast, ominous ocean. Peter’s jaw clenched as the information tried to penetrate a brain that was refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. He remained frozen in place until Diana’s voice cut into the static filling his mind.

     “Boss, I’ve been in touch with the Coast Guard and they are sending all available vessels to the scene. However, the analysis of this footage……….well, they estimated the chopper’s altitude at approximately 8,000 feet. They claimed that a human body could not withstand an impact from that height and survive intact. With the ocean currents and predators, they are not even hopeful that they can recover a body. They are now in ‘search and recover’ mode rather than ‘search and rescue.’”

     Diana waited a few seconds, shifting from one foot to the other. The behavior was so unlike the steadfast, dynamic agent who usually kept a damper on her emotions while on the job. Finally, she had to fill the shocked, painful silence. She needed to wrest her boss back to the present. She needed his rock-hard stability, as would the whole White Collar crew when this knowledge was shared. Neal had managed, with his smiling charm, to worm his way into each of their lives.

     Diana was right. As quiet descended in the bullpen, agents clustered in tight little circles and whispered. A few intrepid souls would glance up at Peter in his office, but then quickly avert their eyes if he seemed to notice them. They need not have worried about embarrassment, because Peter probably wouldn’t have noticed an elephant waltzing through the FBI doors. His mind was stuck in a loop.

     _“Authenticate, Mr. Authenticator.”_

“ _Are you absolutely certain that it is a forgery?”_

     “ _I’m sure_.”

     And the last tortured image of Neal’s frightened, beseeching eyes.

     Like a robot, Peter started filling out a report in fits and spurts. He was making precious little headway when someone knocked with authority on his door. Bruce Hawes, the FBI Section Chief above Peter stood there and gave Peter a rueful little smile.

     “I was briefed regarding the fiasco that happened earlier today. I’m sorry in so many ways, Peter.”

     “Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate you’re taking the time to come,” Peter said perfunctorily.

     “Any new developments of which I’m not aware?”

     Peter took a breath and gamely stated the facts. “We are in constant contact with police officials in Montreal. They are searching but have precious little information to go on except a description of the men, which is so generic that it could describe almost all of their citizenry. They don’t know what kind of vehicle the fugitives are now using. The helicopter has been impounded, but so far, that is a dead end. In actuality, there is no progress.”

     The section chief persisted, “Are you sure that Caffrey wasn’t in on this, colluding with the thieves? A cut of the transaction would have netted him a tremendous windfall.”

     Peter reacted instantly. “Neal would have never been a party to this. He only had one year left on his sentence. He wouldn’t risk his freedom for any amount of money!”

   “Well, looking at Caffrey’s past, he has been known to act impulsively and make quixotic decisions. Didn’t he break out of a federal prison just three months short of completing a four year sentence, all supposedly, for the love of a girl?” Hawes challenged Peter to say that he was incorrect.

     Peter countered by leading Hawes into the conference room and showing him the video feed.

     “Neal became collateral damage as soon as they were safely out in the open sea,” he said quietly.

     “Well, let’s not make any assumptions,” the Section Chief said definitively, “until we have a body and can make a positive identification. If it is true, then you have my heartfelt sympathy. I know how close the two of you had become over the years.”

     When Peter didn’t respond, Peter’s superior quietly made his exit.

     Peter gave up trying to finish his report. He needed to go home to his wife, the one person who truly would be able to know the depth of his sorrow, and who would commiserate without doubts and reservations. He needed someone that he could lean on, if only temporarily, until he could process his grief and go on.

     El had arrived home just minutes before Peter with Chinese carryout now sitting on the kitchen island. She only had to look at Peter’s devastated face to know that something was horribly wrong. He led her to the couch and related what had transpired during the sting. El’s face immediately crumbled and tears streaked down her cheeks. They held each other and rocked back and forth until her weeping subsided into occasional hiccups. Dinner was eventually packed away uneaten into the refrigerator and husband and wife sat in silent mourning as the night hours settled. The living room had now become a haven of shadows. Finally, El rose shakily and said that she was going to bed. Peter promised that he would walk Satchmo and join her soon.

     Innately, the Lab seemed to sense the pathos of his owner and made quick and unenthusiastic work of the necessities of his walk. Fifteen minutes later, after Peter unclipped his leash, he slunk away to the security of his dog bed. Peter then stepped outside onto the back patio. Wearily, he sat down at the small garden table and took a deep breath. The tight bands across his chest refused to lessen their constriction, and he wondered idly if he might be having a heart attack. He was sure that this pain was in his heart—“heartache” caused by an unfathomable loss. Alone and engulfed in the anonymous cloak of night, Peter finally gave himself permission to put his head down onto his folded arms and let gut-wrenching sobs escape.

 

 


	2. A New Handler

     Neal had been terrified as he was being dragged towards a point of no return at the hangar. He could only stare searchingly into Peter’s eyes, but what he saw there was a fear that mirrored his own. He hoped that at the last second he had silently conveyed, “It’s alright, Buddy, you did everything that you could. Sadly, this time you can’t save me.” It was what he wanted his handler to know, but he doubted that any of that came through in the heat of the moment.

     Once inside the huge helicopter, Neal was thrown into a plush leather seat. When he looked around, he realized that the aircraft had room for five more occupants. However, besides Mr. Muscle and the little squirrely guy, there was only one other person seated in the rear of the compartment. It wasn’t long before this person made his way forward and sat directly across from Neal. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, of medium height, stocky build, and possessing a thick mane of salt and pepper hair. His complexion was dark, a prominent brow gave his black eyes a hooded look, and a Roman nose dominated his face. This was not an attractive man. However, what he lacked in looks, he compensated for by exuding a sense of power. It oozed from him like the reek of perfume, and Neal now began counting the rest of his life in minutes rather than in years.

     Even though they were airborne, the well-insulated passenger space was relatively quiet with only the dull thump of turning rotors in the background. Thus, Neal had no difficulty hearing the newcomer’s first words that held just a hint of a foreign accent.

     “You will tell me exactly who you are. I want to know the person responsible for ruining the execution of my carefully planned endeavor.”

     Neal was tempted to answer, “ _I’m just the man with no name_ ,” but he had a feeling that wouldn’t garner him any points. So, he answered truthfully, “My name is Neal Caffrey.”

     His interrogator’s eyebrows shot up and a malicious chuckle escaped his lips. It raised goosebumps on Neal’s arms.

     “Do you believe in karma, my young friend?”

     The older man did not give Neal a chance to respond as he continued in a soft voice. “Many years ago, I purchased what every expert in the field told me was an original van Dyke. Perhaps you may recall that painting; it was a portrait of Charles I. It was indeed magnificent, and I relished my providential acquisition, that is until carbon dating of the frame revealed a forgery. I believe that you were the forger, if my inquiries were correct.”

     Neal looked up with a wry expression. “I was young, just twenty-one and starting out in the business when I painted that particular one. I made novice mistakes, but I learned along the way not to make the same mistake again. I never sold another painting with a frame.”

     His host just nodded his head once. “It is a wise man who learns a lesson and makes it part of himself. Only insolent or insipid people keep repeating themselves and expect a different outcome. Someone once told me that is the definition of insanity. I think it simply defines stupidity. I have kept that painting all these years to remind myself that even with all of my wealth and connections, there will always be someone a bit smarter. It keeps me humble as well as vigilant.”

     After a few beats, the man continued. “Back then, I had my people learn everything that they could about you. I know that your hubris regarding certain bonds was your Waterloo, and that you went to prison. How is it that your remarkable talent is now being exploited by the very same people who put you behind bars?”

     Neal simply lifted his pant leg to expose the tracker that was now was in distress mode, the red light blinking with a furious intensity.

     “Ah, I see,” his host murmured. “You went from one cage to another, but still a captive, nonetheless.”

     The silver-haired man nodded to his bodyguard, who then went to the rear of the aircraft. He returned minutes later with a substantial pair of tin snips that cut through the anklet strap like butter. Another nod to the hired muscle had him pulling back the side door of the helicopter. The rushing turbulence was deafening, and Neal instinctively grabbed the armrests. There was no doubt in his mind that this was his stop—this is where he was getting off. He wondered how long it would take him to hit the water and die from the impact. It would probably feel like a lifetime.

     Apparently, there was some unspoken communication between the boss and his employee, because without warning, the bodyguard suddenly turned to the smaller man who had initially presented the forged painting at the meet. He wrenched him from his seat, and, in the next instant, tossed the petrified fellow out into the void like a sack of garbage. Neal’s anklet followed the screaming man down to certain death. Then the door was closed once more and the quiet returned.

     The whole experience was surreal, and Neal opened his mouth but no words came out.

     Hard, dark eyes stared into Neal’s. “As I told you, Mr. Caffrey, we must learn from our mistakes and never make them again. That most unfortunate chap was my resident artist. Up until now, his work was acceptable, but I will not make the mistake of taking the chance that he will fail again. Besides, I have already providentially found his replacement—a genius with a brush as well as a masterfully discerning eye.”

     The cruel smile that accompanied this statement did nothing to allay Neal’s fear. Apparently, he had been granted a temporary reprieve, but it was anybody’s guess how long that would last. It looked like he was more of a prisoner rather than a new hire. Neal didn’t have enough information yet to be proactive and to form a plan. He would have to react to things and situations and adapt as they unfolded.

     More than likely, Peter would now think that he was dead, so Neal couldn’t count on any help from that direction. Then he silently chided himself. For years before Peter Burke came onto the scene, Neal had been taking care of himself, getting out of dire situations by his wits and his formidable expertise. He was an escape artist, for crying out loud. He would eventually figure this out and save himself!

**********

     Being distracted, Neal had no idea how long they had been flying. He had tried to engage his abductor in conversation—tried to extract a name, a destination, anything, really. He was told that he would know everything that he needed to know in due time. When they eventually touched down at an airport, he heard French being spoken. They had not been in the air long enough to reach Europe, so Neal’s best guess was that they were in one of the French speaking provinces of Canada. With the bodyguard behind him and the hard presence of a gun barrel in his back, Neal docilely exited the helicopter, only to be immediately prodded into a Mercedes SUV. Whoever his kidnapper was, he obviously had a lot of clout because no passports or IDs were necessary. Actually, no one challenged them at all, so somebody’s palm had been well greased.

     The trip continued for several hours, and road signs indicated that they were bypassing Quebec. Eventually, the highway became more of a two-lane affair as they continued in a northerly direction. If Neal was remembering his geography, they were now on the Gaspe Peninsula. The Mercedes made its way towards the coast and the journey ended at a marina. A very large and imposing yacht was moored there in the semi-darkness. She was pristine white, so even in the fading light, Neal still could make out the name “ _Minerva_ ” with no difficulty painted in black cursive across her bow flare.

     “Minerva,” Neal mused aloud, “a Greek goddess and sponsor of the arts. I believe there is a prophetic meaning in there somewhere.”

     His host just smiled enigmatically. “I’m sure that you are both tired and hungry after your little adventure today. I have instructed Carl—that is the gentleman with whom you are already personally acquainted—to put you in Martin’s stateroom after we board, since he has no further use of his accommodations. Since you are so eager for information, now you can put a name to the former artist who left us rather abruptly. His clothes will be too small for you, but I am sure one of the crew is more your size and can donate a small wardrobe of essentials for the next several days. I will also have some fruit, cheese, and wine delivered to your cabin. Sleep well, my young friend. We’ll talk in the morning.”

   The cabin to which the bodyguard escorted him was well appointed and luxurious, with large windows that afforded a panoramic view. Neal peered outside as the “Minerva,” with only her running lights illuminated, made her way sedately down the St. Lawrence River until she reached the open waters of the Atlantic. Then her speed increased, and she left the lights of shore far behind. Neal felt at sea as well; he was moving farther and farther away from the place that he had called home for over half of his life, and there wasn’t a thing that he could do about it!

     Eventually, there was a soft knock on his stateroom door before it opened abruptly. An olive-skinned young man with a head full of dark ringlets entered bearing a tray of food and beverage. He refused to answer any of Neal’s queries about his name, where they were headed, or who owned the vessel. The quiet youth returned shortly thereafter with an armful of clothes and toiletries. The t-shirts and jeans had been washed and ironed, and the silent crewmember carefully tucked them away in vacant drawers.

     As he was about to take his leave, Neal addressed the young man’s back in Greek, “Perhaps you would prefer that I speak to you in your native tongue?”

     The crewman startled, tuned on his heel, and instinctively opened his mouth to answer before quickly stopping himself. Then he brusquely hurried through the door, closing it firmly behind him. Neal did not see him again until he returned in the morning and beckoned Neal to follow him with a curt “Come!”

     The gray-haired man was seated at a table on the fantail. Fruit, yogurt, and eggs were already piled onto his plate. He gave Neal a perfunctory “Good Morning,” and a waiter was immediately looming at Neal’s elbow. Neal accepted coffee and just stared at his host.

     “I know that you have questions, Neal,” the older man began.

     Before he could continue, Neal cut into whatever the man was about to say next. “And I believe that I already have some possible answers.”

     A raised cynical eyebrow was his host’s only reaction.

     “I believe that you are the mastermind behind all of the grand museum heists that have occurred over the last year or year and a half. I think that you are acquiring the art for yourself. I believe that great masterpieces are your passion, and you would never part with an acquisition once that it was in your hands. Having someone replicate those works of art for sale to the unsuspecting and naïve is a way to finance your lifestyle as well as the next operation. I think that your nationality is Greek, and we are headed to Greece now. It is probably your base of operations, where the artistic work takes place. And now you need me to resume where ‘Martin’ left off because you still have pieces to broker on the black market. ……..How am I doing so far?”

     The older man appeared unfazed. “You are a truly clever man, Neal. A good host should make his guest feel comfortable and at ease, so let me fill in most of the remaining blanks for you. I am, indeed, of Greek origin. My name is Krios Eliopoulus. And yes, the ‘Minerva’ is bound for the Cyclades in the southern Aegean where I have my private island. It is a lovely place—isolated and quiet—almost a fortress. I believe that you could be happy there, although I will have to first assess if you are still sufficiently talented at your craft to remain as my guest.”

     Neal pondered this for a minute before continuing the conversation. “So, I have to prove my worth to you, finish a few paintings, and then you’ll let me go?” Neal was sure that he already knew the answer. This man had intentionally told him too much. When Neal stopped being an asset, he would become a definite expendable liability.

     “Let us take this one step at a time,” Eliopoulus cautioned him. “Now eat some breakfast and relax. We have many days journey ahead.”

**********

   The sea voyage took weeks rather than days, but finally a large island loomed in the morning mist, rising out of the majestic blue sea like a mirage. Using binoculars, Neal took in the huge villa perched atop the promontory. It was a whitewashed expanse and quite magnificent with a multitude of mullioned windows, suspended balconies and numerous blue-domed cupolas.

     The “Minerva” dropped anchor offshore and Eliopoulus and Neal were ferried on tenders to the small dock. Jeeps then took them up the steep mountain. Walking through an atria, Neal took in the Greek’s home and tried not to gawk. It was truly stupendous, as ornate and opulent as any structure ever erected by an Astor or a Vanderbilt.

     “Are you impressed, my young friend?” Eliopoulus queried with a chuckle. “As the less than articulate Yanks would utter, ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!’”

     He then led Neal into the conservatory, a quaint term for the most impressive art gallery in the world. Every great and celebrated artist throughout the ages was represented and it took Neal’s breath away. There were more Raphaels, Botticellis, Rembrandts, and Vermeers in one place than he had ever seen in his life. There were also numerous paintings by Monet, van Gogh, Degas, Cezanne, and Gainsborough, but Neal couldn’t tear his eyes away from da Vinci’s “St. John the Baptist” that dominated one wall. However, Eliopoulus insisted on drawing the awed man’s attention to the painting hanging prominently over a fireplace mantle. Neal found himself staring at his own youthful forgery of the van Dyke.

     “I told you that I kept it to remind me about arrogance,” Eliopoulus said. “However, all the rest of what you see is very authentic. Originally, I acquired the pieces, one by one, the old fashioned way.”

     “You mean you purchased them legitimately,” Neal said.

     “That’s correct, but after my tastes became more centered on the Renaissance, it was sometimes impossible to obtain what I wanted. Museums seem to think that the ignorant, disrespectful masses should be able to view the legacy of true genius, and no amount of money could convince them differently. So, I found that the growth of my collection was very nicely expedited if I simply took what I desired.”

     Neal smiled. “And to keep you in the style to which you are accustomed, you sell forgeries of what you have stolen.”

     Eliopoulus, with his shark-like smile, didn’t answer. Instead, he led Neal up a luxurious staircase that looked to be modeled after the Grand Staircase of the Paris Opera House. Eventually they came to a cavernous room that was obviously an atelier. Great expanses of floor to ceiling windows let in the natural light, easels stood in formation like a wooden army, blank canvases of every size were piled on shelving as well as tubes of paint and palettes. There were even large ovens against one wall that were the necessary accoutrement for aging paintings. In the very center of the room, three tripods were already set up. Two had renderings of Titian’s “Salome,” and the third canvas was blank.

     “I have instructed Carl to bring the original Titian as well as Martin’s ill-fated rendition up here. Now your test is to begin, Mr. Caffrey,” the Greek ominously announced. “You will remain here, in this room, until you can create the perfect forgery. Through that archway is a small room where you can sleep when you must, and an ensuite bathroom for your needs. Your meals will be brought to you here, and a guard will remain outside the only door to make sure that you stay focused on your task. Just inform him when your labors are completed.”

     “So, I guess the rest of the mansion tour has been canceled for now. Is a rain check a possibility?” Neal sniped to a door that Eliopoulus was already closing.

     Left alone, Neal investigated his new prison. The huge windows were plate glass and stationary, and even if he managed to break them, the vista far below was quite treacherous. Looking down, Neal saw nothing but huge, jagged black boulders that were continually being bombarded by angry crashing waves that sent a mist high into the air and left seething white foam eddying between the crevices. Just to be sure that the door was being guarded, Neal opened it a crack and found himself staring into dark eyes that narrowed threateningly. Neal just gave the sentry a mock salute and quickly re-closed the portal. Well, Neal had certainly been in worse prisons.

     For the present there was no way out for him, but he would bide his time. “Remember, Caffrey, you are an escape artist as well as an artist with a paintbrush,” he reminded himself. “At some point, you’ll figure this out.”

     The only recourse was to begin the forgery that could possibly get him a little wiggle room. It took him five days to complete his work, and another two days before he was satisfied with the proper amount of aging in the ovens. The next time that he opened the door, it was to inform the guard that his painting was finished. It wasn’t long before Eliopoulus appeared to scrutinize the work.

     “Very impressive, Neal, but you have ‘conned’ me in the past. So, I will have my authenticators have a look before it gets my seal of approval. These are new experts since the previous ones made a grievous error in judgment.”

     Neal idly wondered if their fates had been similar to Martin’s, the disgraced artist, but he wasn’t about to ask that question. Two days later, Neal heard the approach of a helicopter. That gave Neal a new piece of information. There was a helipad somewhere on the island. A half hour later, three men appeared, along with Eliopoulus, in the atelier. A duo of guards then removed Neal to the conservatory, jerked him down into a chair, and remained silently standing alongside of him like the beaver-hatted sentries of Buckingham Palace. Neal sat and stayed!

     Just as Neal was getting antsy enough to try his guards’ patience by moving, Eliopoulus re-appeared. He was alone now, his authenticators nowhere insight.

     “You have done well, my young friend. Your reputation is well deserved and you have earned a more fitting accommodation. Come, let me show you.”

     Apparently, Neal was now going to get that “rain check” to see more of the mansion. The Greek once again led him up the Grand Staircase, but this time to a third floor. He opened the door to a sumptuous suite decorated with imported Italian marble, furniture edged in gold leaf and lush velvet draperies.

     “This is now your room, Neal. Come and go as you please. Explore to your heart’s content, even outside, when that is your wish. I hope that you will take your evening meal with me in the dining room. I have a superb chef whose gastronomic creations are inspired. He will provide anything that you desire—Beluga caviar, Kobe beef, bird’s nest soup—just name it. You will find a magnificent and well-stocked wine cellar with labels that are quite impressive. There is a gym in one of the wings and a masseuse in residence. There is a also a billiard room as well as a media room. Television broadcasts are not available, but I have an extensive collection of movies and documentaries. Of course, the library is a treasure trove of contemporary novels as well as first editions. Please feel free to avail yourself. If you desire the occasional bit of company, I can arrange a visitor for the night—an alluringly beautiful girl or perhaps a pretty young boy? It is important to me that you are content and happy while my guest.”

     Neal gave his host a sardonic smile. “I feel like I’m on one of those ‘free’ weekends where I’m bombarded by a hard-sell time-share agent. If I am truly your guest, then my desire is to check out now. I have completed your painting and apparently, it passed muster. Now, please take me to the closest island with an airport and I can take care of the rest of my travel plans.”

     Eliopoulus smiled that haughty smile that Neal had come to hate. “Unfortunately, Neal, you have misinterpreted our liaison. Your work is far from finished; it has only just begun. There are three more masterpieces, courtesy of the National Gallery of London, that need to be replicated. Martin was rather a slow and plodding artist, and had yet to begin their execution. You can take your time with those. A shrewd purveyor of such goods should not flood the market. Their emergence must be gradual to whet the appetites of the furtive collectors’ avarice.”

     Neal confronted his far from benign patron. “What if I refuse your deal? Would I be forced to do a bit of cliff diving into the sea?”

     “Of course not, my talented friend. I would be a fool to squander your genius. You will do as I ask quite willingly because I now know your Achilles Heel. My team has conducted extensive research into every facet of your life, and has made me aware of a Mrs. Ellington, a Mr. Theodore Winters, and, of course, a certain FBI agent. How utterly quaint, if implausible, that you have a bond with the man who imprisoned you. Perhaps there is hope for us yet.”

 


	3. Prisoner

     In defiance, Neal did not return to the atelier for several days. When he did eventually re-enter the room, he was immediately confronted by Martin’s “Salome” forgery. The unfortunate canvas had been viciously slashed into ribbons. No doubt, this was Eliopoulus’ less than subtle message about what would happen to those whom Neal loved if he failed to comply with the Greek’s demands!

     Neal had used the previous days of relative freedom wisely doing reconnaissance of his new prison. He had familiarized himself with the floor plan, the number of staff, the head count of guards, and where they were housed. The villa’s plethora of rooms was mindboggling, but nowhere could he find a sat phone, a computer, or even a television screen. He seemed to be as sequestered as a convict on Devil’s Island.

     True to Eliopoulus’ word, Neal was allowed to venture outside the villa unescorted. Taking advantage of that fact, he had jogged around the perimeter of the island for at least five miles. He had discovered the helipad, but little else. He scuttled a plan to take a guard by surprise and grab a gun to force someone to fly him off the island. He just could not envision himself being capable of threatening a man with a weapon that he knew he could never use.

   There were no boats moored in any cove. The shoreline was too rocky for any safe inlets except for the small pier where he had disembarked that first day. That little bit of beach was crystal clear and calm with just the gentle swelling of a tide. Tenders arrived twice a week to the pier bringing supplies, but then they left to return to a larger boat that sailed off to the east until it disappeared over the horizon. Guards stood by counting heads and scrutinizing faces, so there was no way that Neal could sneak aboard unnoticed.

     In the end, Neal rationalized that the only way off this rock was by sea or air, and he had access to neither. He really was not even sure where he was. Using an atlas from the villa’s library, he had looked up the Cyclades in the Aegean. There was a multitude of little dots indicating islands with no name. How appropriate; the “man with no name” was now marooned on an island with no name!

     Even immersed in the lap of luxury, Neal became bored quite quickly. He idly wondered if this would have happened if he and Mozzie had stayed on their getaway island indefinitely. However, Peter had made sure that Neal did not stay long enough to find out. Sometimes, in the dead of night when Neal couldn’t sleep, he would take apart his and his handler’s relationship, piece by piece, and then reassemble it in different formations, as a child does with little Lego blocks.

     What if he had never extended the offer to work for Peter in his quest to catch “The Dutchman”? What if Peter had never taken him up on the offer? It was a moot point now. At the time, they had both wanted something from the other, so the pact was made, consequences be damned. That was the foible of human nature. Everybody always wanted something from someone else. Neal began to tick names off, one by one.

     Kate had wanted a happily ever after with him. Alex had coveted her grandfather’s legacy of which he had access. Sara had wanted him to be a different Neal. Mozzie ached for the white whale of a score that Neal could get for him, and even June relished feeling needed and valued by her wayward tenant to rescue her from the ennui of her twilight years.

     Over time, he had managed to deal with everyone’s desires in the short term, even though the wished-for outcomes never really took shape and usually ended in chaos and hurt all around. If he were being honest, sometimes he felt like a pawn being maneuvered around a chessboard in a game with high-stakes—just pushed in one direction, then another—sometimes on the offensive, but most times retreating and re-grouping.

     Finally, Peter became the last person on Neal’s mental list of individuals who desired something. Actually, his handler demanded the most from him. He gave lip service to the caveat that he wanted Neal to reform and to stay on the straight and narrow. Yet he had no dichotomies of the soul when he encouraged his CI to use his less than legal expertise to solve crimes. Yes, Peter savored those sky-high closing stats that were making him a legend in the FBI. And he also relished power.

     Peter was all about control, especially over Neal, and the conman allowed it because that power was usually tempered by his caring concern for Neal’s wellbeing. That is, until one day when it wasn’t okay. When his handler had told Neal to his face that he would always see Neal as a criminal no matter what, the disillusioned CI found the unfamiliar emotion of animosity welling up in his chest. At that moment, Neal’s heart had hardened, but, as was his nature, it was only a temporary anger. What the hell was wrong with him that, as time went on, he forgave the hurt and allowed a wary fondness to return? How could he love the man, a seeming paragon of integrity and a surrogate for an absent father, just as much as he could hate the man who had coldly set him adrift emotionally?

     Neal knew that his feelings were a mare’s nest—twisted and tangled and unfathomable even to himself. He didn’t know what he ultimately wanted from life. What he did know was that he wanted a chance to figure it all out without any parameters or fences to limit his decision. Maybe he just wanted to be “the man with no name” until he could decide who he really was.

**********

     The days passed. It had been almost a month since Neal, now a bird in a gilded cage, had crossed the threshold of this sumptuous fortress/prison. He knew that for a fact because he had been perversely marking the passage of time with an indelible marker on the pristine cream-colored walls of his room. He was sure that Eliopoulus had been made aware of the desecration, but he never remarked on it to Neal.

     For the most part, Neal chose to ignore his captor, petulantly refusing to dine with him and taking his meals in his room or in the atelier. He also chose to ignore the magnificent Rafael painting, “ _Portrait of Pope Julius II,_ ” perched on an easel in the middle of the room. No doubt, this was the next painting that he was supposed to copy.

     Instead, during the next month Neal rebelliously painted his own masterpieces from memory. There was the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Piazza San Marco in Venice, the iconic Sydney Opera House with its delicate shells, and, of course, the dear to his heart Chrysler Building as seen from from June’s balcony.

     One afternoon as he painted, he was graced with Eliopoulus’ surprise presence. The man stared at Neal’s work, but chose not to comment. Instead, he told Neal, in very emphatic terms, that it was time for him to earn his keep and to start on the Rafael. Neal simply returned the stare until the Greek was the first to blink and left the room. The next morning, Neal found all of his own works slashed and in tatters just as Martin’s had been. Message clear—message received. He started work on the Rafael that day.

     Neal managed to drag out the Rafael process well into the third month, but he had no doubts that Eliopoulus visited each night to make sure that there had been progress. When Neal was satisfied with the finished result, he told the Greek as much. Two days later, a trio of officious men was flown to the island by chopper. Neal was now allowed to stay in the room as they made their determination of authenticity. The definitive method would be the use of tomography, but a portable x-ray machine would have been cumbersome, so they settled for the black light of a Woods Lamp and a microscope. Neal was glad that he hadn’t tried to infuse his own signature into the painting. It would have been detected immediately.

     When they left, Eliopoulus spoke to his captive. “You have done well, Neal. The experts are confident that it will pass for the original.”

     “Well, it won’t stand up to x-ray. The canvas underneath is blank. Rafael was known for being frugal and for painting over his previous attempts,” Neal reminded him.

     The Greek chuckled. “Do you really think that the buyer will want to go to that extreme at a risky, clandestine, illegal handoff? Even if they have it tested at a later date, most will not want to admit that they have been deceived. Most probably do not even want to know. They just want the dream of owning an original Rafael to remain unsullied, even if they subconsciously suspect that they may be deluding themselves. I work through intermediaries, so my name never emerges if anyone suddenly decides that he has been swindled and desires restitution.”

     “Will I be accompanying the painting to the sale as Martin did?” Neal asked.

     “I’m afraid not, dear boy. You will remain here and enjoy more of my hospitality.”

     Ten days later, the Greek was back on the island and he very firmly requested Neal’s presence at dinner. During the meal, Eliopoulus was in an expansively good mood, ordering a priceless vintage bottle of a Saint-Emilion Bordeaux to be uncorked and decanted to accompany a five-course meal.

     Neal ventured a guess. “I take it that the sale of the Rafael went well.”

     “Indeed it did, my beautiful artistic genius. I am considerably more wealthy now than when last you saw me,” the Greek bragged.

     “Do I cut a cut of the profits for my labor?” Neal asked innocently.

     Perhaps a bit tipsy on the wine, Eliopoulus reacted with a deep rumbling laugh that seemed to go on and on. “You do so amuse me, Neal. It makes it all worthwhile, even if I have to endure your never-ending sulks. Now why don’t you stop acting like a brooding, rebellious teenager and join me for dinner each night. I can be an entertaining host. Do you play backgammon by chance? That game is my passion and I rarely find a worthwhile opponent.”

     Neal wondered if he declined, just what would be slashed to ribbons next. So, each evening he showed up for dinner, and sometimes even deigned to play backgammon. Eliopoulus was an excellent strategist, ruthless and cunning. On the occasions when Neal really had his head in the game, he outsmarted the man quite handily. However, most evenings he just did not have the initiative to make it more than challenging for the megalomaniac.

     One late night over cognacs, both men sat in front of the fireplace, each watching the flames, their inner thoughts secret unto themselves. Eliopoulus was high on a backgammon triumph, and Neal was mentally far away from the Aegean on another continent. Neal suddenly broke the silence by asking, “Are you ever going to let me go?”

     His captor answered with a question of his own. “Do you even remember my first name, Neal?”

     Neal looked at him quizzically and wondered where this was going.

     “My first name is Krios, and the derivation of its meaning is ‘master.’ That’s quite fitting, don’t you agree?” There was no more discussion of Neal’s status that night or the many nights that followed.

**********

     Neal completed “ _The Judgment of Paris_ ” by Peter Paul Rubens during the sixth month of his captivity. By the ninth month, Veronese’s “ _The Family of Darius Before Alexander_ ” followed. Each time one masterpiece was finished, a new one found its way onto an easel in the atelier. Nonetheless, Neal had plenty of downtime in between. Sometimes he contemplated how his parole on the anklet would be coming to an end if he were still the Neal Caffrey residing in New York. For all intents and purposes, that Neal Caffrey was long dead and probably forgotten. Sometimes, Neal felt as if he were dead as well.

     Peter had probably accepted the premise that Neal was the one heaved out of that helicopter—that is, if anybody witnessed the debacle. Had Peter simply taken everything at face value, cut his losses, and adopted a new CI? Was that new person now sitting at his old desk and drinking the swill that the FBI called coffee? Had June closed up her spare room and converted it back to storage once more? Did Byron’s vintage suits finally reach the consignment shop? And what of Mozzie? Neal missed him most of all. No matter how irritatingly paranoid or compulsive the little bald man was, he was always there for Neal through everything. Like an annoying, sometimes frustrating sibling, he was forever bound to Neal, warts and all.

     The depressed man tried to tire himself into exhaustion so that his mind would shut down. He ran the perimeter of the island until his legs were rubbery and weak. He swam far out beyond the breakwater at the pier into the very deep Aegean. He wondered if he would just let go, would he drown, or would his reptilian brain compel his rebellious body to surface once more and force it to take a breath?

     On cloudy, rainy days, he punished his body in the gym with strenuous exercises and weights. The resident masseuse would watch impassively during the marathon workout, but then insist on wresting the kinks and knots from the tortured muscles afterwards. One dark afternoon, as thunderclaps rumbled and lightning sporadically lit up the windows, the masseuse’s oiled hands ceased their insistent pummeling. The massage became more of a caress, and talented fingers moved slowly towards Neal’s depths. Neal looked up at the man who had a hopeful expression on his face, quirked a regretful smile and shook his head slightly. A rueful nod and shoulder shrug was returned, and that was the end of that.

     Neal took care of his own needs at night in the privacy of his own bed or shower. Closing his eyes, he would fantasize about Kate’s soft skin and kittenish expressions, Alex’s bawdy lushness, and Sara’s indelicate giggles in the most intimate of moments. It was but a pale substitute for reality, but his life wasn’t real anymore, and perhaps, never would be again. After awhile, he became worried because the dreams of his previous life stopped occurring during sleep. He wondered if the “man with no name” was finally disappearing as well.

 


	4. "I Don't Speak Greek"

     The past year had been so hard for Peter. Neal’s body was never recovered, and his absence was a void in everyone’s life. Each person handled the loss in a different way. Initially, it was left to Peter to break the news to both June and Mozzie. The quirky little guy flatly refused to accept the validity of it. No way had that happened to Neal! He was out there somewhere just awaiting his chance to come home. When he finally did make it, they would all laugh and be impressed with his clever way of eluding his captors. June, as stoically regal as ever, refused to share her grief with Peter and El. She was a private person, she explained, and she would do her mourning alone.

     However, Jones, Diana, and all of the agents and ancillary staff in White Collar held their own raucous wake at a neighborhood bar, raising their glasses in tribute to their fallen colleague as each person tried to top the last audacious Neal story. Even Hughes got up off his retirement couch to make an appearance. Peter always suspected the old curmudgeon had a soft spot for the conman.

     Peter never did hear from Section Chief Bruce Hawes on the touchy subject, and that was just as well. Peter had become disenchanted with the politics and duplicitousness within the lofty realms of the higher ups. They saw Neal only as a tool that they could use, never as a person. They had let him down time and time again, and Peter, with his own job security in jeopardy, had been helpless to make it right.

     Perhaps to pacify the disenchanted agent, a bump up to an authoritative position in Washington, DC was dangled in front of his face. It was tempting, especially with El enthused about the possibility that he would no longer be risking life and limb in the field. However, Peter was determined to stay right where he was, doing what he had always done—solve cases! And he vowed that he would solve the art forgery case and nail the persons responsible for Neal’s death, even if it was the last case that he did solve.

     To that end, he compulsively poured over the updates from Interpol’s European scene. There hadn’t been any new museum heists in the last year, but there were sporadic murmurings of Renaissance masters changing hands around the globe. Unfortunately, foreign authorities saw vague leads disappear over and over as if a modern-day Houdini had appropriated them. Then a break in the case emerged, and Peter was euphoric!

     The information reached Peter by a circuitous route. NSA had heard chatter that a certain wealthy oil sheik from Dubai had recently arranged to purchase “ _Self Portrait_ ,” a painting by El Greco. That particular piece had been stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York almost two years ago. It was actually the broker’s name that had triggered the alert. Abdi Osman was a Turkish national, and he had been on NSA’s watch list since he made frequent visits to the States. “Yes, all of you bleeding heart liberals, that is profiling! Just get over your outrage and accept that fellow patriots are striving to keep you safe,” Peter thought to himself.

     NSA had passed on the information to Homeland Security, and Peter’s friend at Homeland had passed it along to him.

     “Are you still working that case of the museum crew that took your agent awhile back?” his contact asked.

     Peter said that it was now a cold case, but he was still personally invested in solving it and bringing the people responsible for theft as well as murder to justice. He did not correct the man regarding Neal’s official status. He only asked if Homeland and NSA were sharing the intel with Interpol.

     “We have made sure to loop them in. But just so you know,” the government spook said slyly, “Mr. Osman just happens to be visiting the United States on ‘business.’ Right now he is being detained here in Washington for a little R&R, courtesy of the good old US of A.”

     Peter was on the next flight to DC. With a fraternal nod to a fellow agency, he was going to be allowed to sit in on the sub rosa interrogation. By the time that he finally arrived, Peter was a “Johnny Come Lately” to the party. Mr. Osman, threatened with a really long sabbatical at a little spa fondly called “Gitmo,” had been falling all over himself to cooperate. He had coughed up a name—Krios Eliopoulus—and a place. Peter could not begin to pronounce the name of some private island in the Aegean Sea. Then the Turk began begging for anonymity and protection. Apparently, this fellow, Eliopoulus, was capable of striking fear into all those with whom he did business.

     The wheels turned slowly forming a strategy to take down the Greek. The bureaucratic endeavor was cumbersome because so many different governments and agencies became involved. Each wanted to be at the top of the pecking order in the scheme. When it finally came together, all the factions agreed to put aside their squabbles, zip up their flies, and somehow work in concert.

     In the end, the Greek National Police would work in tandem with an elite Interpol team consisting of a multi-national, highly qualified strike force. No doubt, the US would have a shadowy CIA unit nearby, as would England’s MI5, France’s DGSE, as well as Italy’s Carabinieri. All of these countries had experienced brutal massacres during the heists of their museums. Peter’s friend at Homeland had pulled some strings—actually, a lot of strings—to get Peter included in the mission that had been dubbed “Operation Iliad.”

     The quiet, tiny island of Naxos in the Cyclades became the hub for their tactical preparation, since it was the closest one to Eliopoulus’ that had an actual airport. Six nautical miles separated the two in the archipelago. The assault team had utilized satellites and drones to glean as much information as possible beforehand. They knew that there was only one domicile on the almost impenetrable piece of rock, one navigable harbor, and a lone helicopter on a single helipad. For a week, they observed the comings and goings of a small boat that seemed to be simply a conduit for domestic supplies. They saw a few armed men who appeared para-military, but the watchers could not get a feel for an actual size of the guarding force. They needed boots on the ground intelligence, so, what Peter considered a half-baked “Hail Mary” play was hatched.

     A small pleasure vessel had been commandeered from the Naxos marina. Three Greek commandos and three Interpol agents proficient in the language would pose as a crew on the boat. As they neared Eliopoulus’ island, they would disconnect a few wires to disable the vessel, and then use the dinghy to come ashore, ostensibly to ask for help. It would be interesting and informative to gauge the response of their unexpected arrival. Perhaps they would learn something, or perhaps they would not. It certainly was better than going in completely blind.

     On the morning of the venture, Peter practically handcuffed himself to the rail of the boat because he definitely did not intend to be left out of this. The leader of the task force had gotten to know the FBI agent and was aware of his personal loss and of his determined vendetta against the person responsible for his friend’s death. Thus, in a show of camaraderie, the plan was slightly altered to include the American. Since Peter could not speak Greek, he would become a wealthy foreign tourist on holiday in the Cyclades. When asked what other language he could speak besides English, Peter came up blank.

     “We don’t want you conversing with anyone who accosts us, so English is definitely out since one or more of the guards may be able to speak that language,” the task leader mused.

     “I think German might work,” he finally concluded. “How about we make you a wealthy industrial giant from Essen? Now listen and learn: ‘ _Ich spreche kein griechisch._ ’ That’s German for ‘I don’t speak Greek.’ If I allow you to accompany us, you must promise to hang back at the pier—no going off on your own! If someone approaches you, just keep repeating that German phrase. Understood?”

     “Got it,” Peter replied gratefully.

**********

      The morning of the investigative, fact-finding, trial-run dawned clear with a warming sun glinting off the blue water. The “crew” members were togged out in the casual clothes of local Greek deckhands. Peter had donned chinos, a polo shirt, and athletic shoes. When they came close to Eliopoulus’ island, the watercraft stopped dead in the water as planned. Two rubber dinghies were then tossed into the sea, and seven men paddled toward the small pier. Once on dry land, they casually spread out and began looking around as if befuddled about what to do next. As he had promised, Peter lagged behind, leisurely sauntering along the sandy beach trying to look non-threatening and bored.

     Suddenly, without warning, Peter was startled by the unexpected appearance of a figure emerging from the surf just beyond him. Peter was sure that his mind was playing tricks on him as he gazed at the tanned and toned handsome apparition before him. Returning the stare, Neal looked just as stunned before he instinctively reacted with a relieved grin. When Peter beheld that beguiling smile that he hadn’t seen for almost a year, his heart did an emotional flip in his chest. Then he became furiously angry.

     “You son of a bitch!” he spat at his former partner.

     Neal’s smile quickly faded, his expression stricken and crestfallen. “Peter,” he began pleadingly, but the irate agent immediately cut off anything else that the young man may have been about to say.

     “I should have known that you were up to your ears in this! A friggin’ leopard doesn’t change its spots, and shame on me for being a fool and thinking otherwise. It all makes sense now. _You_ have been the one painting the forgeries. How nice that you have found yourself a lucrative little sideline and a wealthy patron to bankroll you. Damn it, Neal, I actually mourned you—we all did. But you’re just a criminal who thinks only of himself and doesn’t give a damn about who he hurts along the way!”

   Neal was finally able to talk over the seething man. “Why do you always jump to conclusions, Peter? Why are you so sure that you have the whole picture?”

     Peter was not to be sidetracked. “Just what am I supposed to think Neal—that you’re being held against your will? I am standing here when suddenly I see ‘Adonis’ emerging from the sea foam like some Greek god returning to his private island. You certainly don’t look like a captive who’s been chained up and tortured for the last year!”

     “Peter,” Neal began hurriedly before he was interrupted again, “in Greek mythology, it was actually Aphrodite who emerged from the sea foam, not Adonis. And the key word here is ‘ _island_ ,’ as in marooned with no way off! The only way to blow this pop stand is by helicopter, and although I possess a multitude of talents, piloting a whirlybird is not one of them!”

     “So you’re telling me that your captors are just letting you run around as free as a bird? Try again, Pal. I’m not buying it!”

     Neal looked beyond Peter and announced, “Actually, my guards are coming for me right now.”

     Peter peered over his shoulder and noted two jeeps tearing down the mountain towards them at breakneck speed.

     “Peter, please tell me that you are here with reinforcements!” Neal then began talking quickly and with some urgency. “There are forty guards by my count. They are all housed on the ground floor on the southeastern side of the villa. They are private mercenaries and are armed to the teeth. There is also twenty domestic staff housed on the ground floor as well.”

     By now, the jeeps had roared to a stop, spraying both Peter and Neal with sand. Two men quickly bracketed Neal on both sides and escorted him to the vehicle that was the farthest away. The apparent leader strutted up to Peter and demanded menacingly, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

     The mercenary had spoken in Greek, so Peter tried to look perplexed as he answered, “ _Ich spreche kein griechisch_.”

     The guard repeated his demand in English. Peter gave the same answer and tried not to notice Neal’s wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. The frustrated, armed man then moved toward Neal and barked, “What were you saying to him. Tell me now!”

     Neal just shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “I got the same response as you. I think the only language this guy understands and speaks is German.”

     By now, other guards had rounded up the uninvited stragglers from the disabled boat. A tense, heated discussion ensued. The visitors were then unceremoniously herded back along the pier to their dinghies and sent on their way. As the island receded, Peter watched helplessly as Neal was driven back up the mountain.

     The mission leader approached Peter. “Our ‘benevolent’ hosts have promised to contact someone to tow us back to Naxos for repairs. I guess our little exercise was a shot in the dark. We still know next to nothing about what we are up against.”

     Peter smiled enigmatically. “There is a garrison of forty armed guards located on the ground floor of the villa, southeast corner. A household staff of twenty, who are probably not armed, also reside on the ground floor. I’m not sure where Eliopoulus may be located.”

     The group leader looked perplexed. “How did you come by this information?”

     “Divine inspiration from an immortal Greek god of the sea,” was all that Peter would divulge.

     Interpol agents are no fools. The man looked at Peter shrewdly and remarked, “Did this deity by any chance speak German?”

     “Let’s just say that we spoke the same language,” Peter smiled and refused to explain any further.

**********

      Later that day the strike force, taking Peter at his word, began detailing their covert op. The initial wave of the attack team would go in via the sea under the cover of darkness. Using scuba gear, they would have their weapons in waterproof sacks that they would drag behind them. The assault would concentrate on that part of the villa that housed the sentries. As flares were ignited by the advance team, a contingent of helicopters would swoop down dropping reinforcements who would then focus on the main part of the house, subduing any unarmed occupants. All team members were shown a picture of Eliopoulus. The objective was to take him alive.

     That night the team leader joined Peter for a cup of coffee.

     “That young fellow that I saw you talking with on the beach……..” the Interpol agent began. However, he failed to complete the sentence. Instead, he chose to sit back in his chair and regard Peter thoughtfully. Finally, he seemed to have reached some sort of conclusion.

     “You know, Peter, the only reason that you were included in this operation is because I gave my okay. Before I made that decision, I boned up on the entire file from the FBI regarding the botched attempt to apprehend this forger a year ago. A good leader should be clued in and know everything about the situation that led up to this juncture. He needs to know everything about the people that he will be working with when he puts his life on the line. He should try to ferret out their motivation and what’s in it for them. I think that I came to know what was driving you, why you were so relentless. I understood the angst surrounding an abducted partner who was presumed to have been murdered along the way.”

     Peter just continued to stare and remained silent.

     Finally, the talkative man smiled. “My objective tomorrow is to secure Eliopoulus while protecting my team from hostiles during the process. I am not really sure that collecting every ‘visitor’ who may be staying there, and subjecting them to intensive interrogation, is going to make much of a difference in the long run. It just sounds like extra paperwork to me. I guess we’ll just have to see.”

     The agent stood up and clapped Peter on the shoulder. “Good partners are hard to come by, and when you have found a worthy one, you need to value that special bond and keep it intact. You need to have faith in them, and when you do, they will always come through for you. At least that’s been my experience.”

     After a pause, he concluded his little speech. “You will have to stay behind tomorrow, Peter, and wait to see how this all plays out. I know it isn’t easy sitting on the bench, but that is how it is. Just so you know, I’m a sucker for happy endings, so I’ll do my best to try to get you one.”

 

 


	5. Send Me A Postcard

     Peter never realized that he was a pacer when under stress. Maybe this was a new development that came with age. Maybe the annoying habit came from working with an infuriating and mercurial CI for three years. Regardless, he thought that he had probably worn a rut in the wooden floor of his hotel room. He had watched as preparations for “Operation Iliad” continued throughout the day. The team leader was compulsively thorough. Everyone knew their task; there would be no “cowboys” during this endeavor. Finally, cloaked in head-to-toe inky black, the now sizable team left in waves after night had fallen.

     Peter saw the rise of the morning sun, but there was no sign of the team’s return. When midday was almost upon him, he meandered down to the docks. He didn’t dare to question anyone there about the missing force. The locals most likely were not even aware of what had transpired during the night. In frustration, he returned to his room, drank more coffee, and paced some more. Shortly thereafter, he actually startled when he heard a knock on his door.

     The Interpol team leader stood before him, a little worse for wear, with a horizontal red streak across his face that barely missed an eye. No doubt, a bullet had grazed him, but the haggard man appeared undaunted. He gave a little smile and a thumbs up before entering Peter’s room and collapsing into the one available chair.

     “The op was a success—mission accomplished,” he began. “We have Mr. Eliopoulus in custody. We managed to waylay him just before he and his pilot were about to get into his helicopter. We also managed to subdue twenty-nine of the mercenaries and take them into custody. Unfortunately, for the bad guys, eleven of their compatriots did not join them standing on their own two feet. They returned to Naxos in body bags. Fortunately, for the good guys, we brought our entire team home with only minor wounds.

     The household staff that we rousted out of their beds was only too happy to raise their hands and wave ‘surrender,’ and we have brought them back as well. Before I left, I did a little sightseeing, and let me tell you, that villa is a veritable treasure trove—a real Aladdin’s cave of art. If everything is authentic, it’s probably worth billions. However, that’s your bailiwick, not mine.”

     Peter continued to stare at the man, willing him to impart the information that was paramount to him. He needed to know Neal’s status!

     The team leader took pity on him, and continued his tale. “This is a very small island—a bit over 6,000 residents. The local constable only has a staff of five, and he is way out of his depth on this one. His jail has just one holding cell. So, that is where we have Eliopoulus right now with two of my guys keeping him company until we can fly him to Athens. I am sure that when Greece is done with him, the list of other foreign countries that want to extradite him for trial will be as long as your arm.

     We have commandeered the local school gymnasium to hold the mercenaries. They, too, are under heavy guard. My superiors are working out the logistics for airlifting them to Athens. As for the house staff, we have sequestered them in five different homes in the town until we can interrogate them, but I seriously doubt that they were complicit in any crimes. Most likely, they are hardworking locals who needed a job and knew Eliopoulus only as a well-heeled employer. The local police are watching them. It is probably the most bizarre house arrest that the confused officers have ever had on this quiet little speck of land. I would bet that none of those cops speak English, so if you decide to have a look-see, you will probably have to flash your badge so they’ll know that you are one of us.

     Here are the addresses of the houses—perhaps you may want to get a head start on conducting your own investigation. You just never know what you may find until you look. I haven’t gotten around to counting heads or getting names yet. My best guess is that the number is around twenty people, but I could be off by one or two.”

     The team leader stood and stretched. He assured Peter that when he completed his report, the FBI would receive a copy of it, as would the myriad of other alphabet-designated agencies in the US and abroad.

     “Thank you,” Peter said sincerely, as the two shook hands.

     The man just smiled. “Just a little courtesy to a fellow agent. You would do the same for me.”

**********

     Of course, nothing regarding Neal Caffrey was ever easy. He wasn’t anywhere in the first four houses that Peter visited, and the FBI agent’s anxiety began to ratchet upwards. So far, all he had seen were just lots of bewildered, frightened people who spanned the age spectrum from young to middle-aged. The policemen watching them tried to look officious, but were having a hard time pulling that off. They looked just as baffled as their captives did.

     Finally, in the last and smallest house, Peter spotted Neal sitting on the kitchen floor with his back to the wall. Three other detainees were lined up beside him. When the con man looked up and spied Peter, his face took on a guarded expression. Without saying a word, Peter whipped out his FBI credentials, pointed to Neal, and rattled a pair of handcuffs that he had extracted from his back pocket. The local cop bought the whole routine. He reached for the cuffs, then unceremoniously hauled the young man to his feet and manacled him. Peter grabbed onto Neal’s upper arm and marched him from the house and onto the street. Less than twenty seconds later, Neal handed the cuffs back to his former partner as they ambled along the quiet thoroughfare.

     Peter slapped Neal lightly on the back and said sincerely, “I was so worried, Neal. You don’t know how glad I am that you’re alright!”

     Neal just quirked an eyebrow and said nothing. Peter had expected a pithy retort from his former partner, and it gave him an uneasy pang for a second. Then he just chalked it up to Neal being overwhelmed after the events of the last twenty-four hours. The agent did not elaborate any further. He just continued along the sidewalk at a brisk pace looking up and down the street, his head swiveling back and forth.

     “What are you doing, Peter?” Neal finally asked.

     “An Interpol agent dropped me off earlier. Now I’m just looking for a taxi to take us back to my hotel so that I can pick up my gear before he drives us to the airport. I want to get two seats on a commuter flight to Athens. From there, we can take a transatlantic flight back to New York.”

     Peter continued scanning the street muttering, “Surely this place has at least a few cabs! Where are they when you need one?”

     Being so absorbed in his search, it took Peter almost half a block before he realized that Neal was not in step beside him. The CI had stopped dead in his tracks and was simply gazing expressionlessly in Peter’s direction.

     Peter cocked his head quizzically. “Come on, Neal!”

     “No,” was the one word response that he got.

     “What do you mean ‘no’?’’ Peter demanded as he quickly retraced his steps and got into Neal’s personal space.

     “Just ‘no,’ Peter. It’s not a complex concept to understand,” Neal said snidely. His face had hardened and was now a study in determination.

     Both men were standing in front of a narrow alley between two storefronts. Peter’s next move was to shove Neal roughly into that alley out of the harsh sunlight. Apparently, they were now going to have a confrontation—a little “Come To Jesus” talk.

     “Neal, you are going back to New York with me today. It’s not up for debate!”

     Even though Peter’s voice had risen, Neal’s now took on a quiet dispassionate tone. “As far as the FBI is concerned, Neal Caffrey is dead. He needs to stay that way.”

     “Sorry, Pal, that’s just not happening,” Peter claimed adamantly. “We, as in ‘you and I,’ are going to go back to the White Collar office, explain what happened, fill out lots of paperwork in triplicate, and then get on with our lives.”

     Neal eyed his former partner cynically. “Do you really think it’s going to be that cut and dried, Peter? Don’t delude yourself. The FBI will jump on the same bandwagon that you did. They will conclude that my so-called abduction was a con, that I was Eliopoulus’ inside man and accomplice. They will have all the evidence they need when they see my paintings. They will be oh-so-happy and self-righteous when they send me back to prison and throw away the key!”

     Peter was frustrated. “Neal, I will back you up. I will protect you. I won’t let them send you back to prison.”

     Neal shook his head and briefly closed his eyes. “Peter, face facts. You do not have that kind of power. You never did, so don’t make promises that you can’t keep. Didn’t our recent adventure on another little island teach you anything? Agent Collins took the credit for a big win, I was put back on an anklet, and you wound up in the god-forsaken evidence cave.”

     Peter was not be be deterred. “I’ll talk them into the anklet deal again. I did it before; I can do it once more. Is being on the anklet under my supervision that bad, Neal?” Peter asked. “It will only be for one more year. Can’t you tough it out, Buddy?”

     “Peter, I have been on an anklet of sorts right here for the last year. I am really tired of being a prisoner, in one form or another, while doing someone else’s bidding. I have paid my debt to the FBI in full and with interest,” Neal said hotly.

     “But all of that isn’t really going to matter,” he continued more calmly as he got his emotions under control. “You are living in a dream world, Peter, if you think that the DOJ is going to buy my story. They will reach the same conclusion that you did when you saw me yesterday. The very _least_ that will happen is that more time will be added to my sentence, and I really don’t want to be the FBI’s indentured servant for years to come. Being joined at the hip with you into your dotage doesn’t sound the least bit appealing.”

     “Neal….” Peter began threateningly, but Neal cut him off.

     “The only way that I’ll ever get my freedom is if the FBI continues to think that I am dead. Let me stay that way, Peter. You need to let me go. I think that after all this time, you have become obsessed with keeping me around like a possession. You seem to forget that I am a human being with feelings. I have forgiven a lot of hurt over the years, but words that are said—well, they can’t be unsaid, and I think the spur of the moment words yesterday exposed what was truly in your heart. You will never fully trust me, and maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe I’ll morph into the worst criminal imaginable. But neither one of us will know unless I get out from under the FBI. If I stay, there will just be another Agent Rice, or Agent Kramer or Agent Collins who’ll come along at some point—different names, different faces, but with the same vengeful motivations.”

     The entire time that this passionate discussion was taking place, Neal had been slowly backing down the alley towards the street.

     “Neal, I’m sorry,” Peter finally said firmly. “I can’t let you go.”

     Heedless of those words, his former partner continued to retreat. Peter, without rational thought, automatically drew his service revolver and demanded, “stop right there!” However, when his brain suddenly registered his spontaneous action and the incongruity and wrongness of it, Peter’s hand immediately dropped to his side. This was not who they were, not who they had ever been!

     Neal actually did freeze for a second. He cocked his head slightly, and with a forlorn little smile, murmured fondly, “You’re not going to shoot me, Peter.” Then he turned around and began walking away, out of Peter’s life and into the bright sunlight.

     “Neal!” Peter called quickly at his departing back. By now, Peter’s gun dangled uselessly from his slack fingers.

     When the young man looked back one last time, Peter whispered just loud enough for him to hear, “Send me a postcard.”

**********

Epilogue

     Peter returned home alone to New York. He wrote up a bare-bones report of what he had observed while in Greece. The sighting of a dark-haired, blue-eyed young man never made it into the short version. He anxiously awaited the official account from the Interpol commander. When it arrived, it was a thick tome that read like an adventure novel. According to the author, the strategic planning and implementation of the venture hinged on the intelligence received from an anonymous source. The commanding officer had postulated that, most likely, this person was probably a disgruntled former employee with an ax to grind against Eliopoulus. Nonetheless, that information was extremely accurate, and it was responsible for the success of the mission.

     A long list accompanied the synopsis enumerating the identities of all the mercenaries, both dead and alive. There were also the names of twenty people who had been employed by the Greek for household maintenance. Twenty names—not twenty-one. Neal’s name never saw the light of day.

     Not long after Peter had settled back into the White Collar routine, Jones and Diana joined him for lunch one afternoon. Jones was the first to broach what was undoubtedly a sensitive subject.

     “It must feel good to see justice done for Neal,” he said. “Eliopoulus is going to pay, Peter, if not with his life, then with a lifetime behind bars. Everybody and their brother wants a piece of that man.”

     Diana then added her two cents. “At least now you have some closure, Boss.”

     Peter was thoughtful for a few moments before he responded. “Let’s just say that I have finally closed the last chapter of Neal Caffrey’s life.”

**********

     Seven months later, Peter tiredly parked the car after a long, tedious workday trying to unravel the convoluted web of a fraudulent mortgage broker. El was going to be late getting home tonight because she was over-seeing an anniversary party gala in the city. Absently, Peter plucked the mail from the box and tossed it onto the kitchen island. A Con-Ed bill sat on top mocking him. The rest were probably bills as well, he thought with a sigh. However, when he carelessly sorted through the envelopes and the junk circulars, a colorful postcard slipped onto the floor. Peter picked it up for closer study, and suddenly his heart rate kicked up a notch because he found himself staring at the beautiful Eiffel Tower in all of its Parisian glory. He was almost afraid to turn it over to see if there was a message. When he did, what he saw written in block letters on the flip side brought an affectionate smile to his face. Suddenly, life was good again.

     That card held a wealth of meaning within its simple signature: “ _From the Man with No Name_.”

 


End file.
